


Habillé

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Corsetry, M/M, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chevalier helps Philippe dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habillé

“Tighter,” Philippe said, wincing.

 “I’ll break the laces,” said the Chevalier.

 “No, you won’t.” Philippe put a hand on his belly, where the lowest flare of the corset rested, digging at the top of his hips. “Tighter, come on.”

 The Chevalier braced his foot against the back of Philippe’s, the toe of his shoe sharp on Philippe’s bare heel. “Don’t blame me when I wreck this infernal device,” he muttered. “Hold your breath.”

Philippe obeyed, sipping one quick mouthful of air before the corset cinched his ribcage. It hurt, because the Chevalier was stronger than Genève, who usually did the honours. He kept his hand on his belly, pressing the stiff smoothness of the stays, as the Chevalier yanked the knots.

 “Ridiculous,” the Chevalier muttered to the small of Philippe’s back, head ducked. “Who has hands small enough for this?”

 “You know what they say about the size of a man’s hands.” Philippe rocked on the balls of his feet with each tug.

 The Chevalier grabbed his hip to steady him. “All too well, darling.”

A last pull, and it was done. Philippe breathed out slowly and in even slower. The smooth compression from pelvis to sternum made his insides relax, crowded though they were.

The Chevalier straightened up and Philippe felt the brush of his hair against one bare shoulder, smelled the wine and perfume scent of it as the Chevalier ducked to bite a kiss into the curve of his neck. “How lovely you are,” said the Chevalier, settling a hand on Philippe’s opposite hip. “If I say so myself.”

Philippe tipped his head to invite more kisses on the side of his throat. His hair was tied up haphazardly in a long ribbon to keep it out of the way of dressing, but the ends of it brushed his back, tickling. The room was so warm with the fireplace and candles, glowing and close, that sweat began to prickle between his ribs.

The Chevalier’s hand on his hip slid to the back and pressed at the bottom of his spine, smoothed up the curve of it. “The shape of you,” he murmured behind Philippe’s ear, into the soft hollow beneath the lobe.

Philippe shifted, letting his backside slot into the accommodating span of the Chevalier’s pelvis. “Quite ladylike, wouldn’t you say?”

The hand on Philippe’s back moved higher, tucking into his hair, pulling it. “The only time I will bear the comparison,” the Chevalier agreed. His fingers curled into the ribbon and tugged it loose. Philippe’s hair tumbled down over his shoulders, soft with recent washing. “I’ll forgive you for it eventually.”

Philippe smirked but said nothing, because he could feel the Chevalier’s forgiveness hard against the curve of his arse. All the scorn the Chevalier had to spare for the courtly pursuits of girlish figures and artful curls and perfect rouging seemed curiously to vanish the moment Philippe entered the fray. The insistence of the Chevalier’s approval, obvious even through the skirts between them, promised the sort of post-party entertainment that, in Philippe’s experience, would leave them both bruised and sore. Last time Philippe had allowed the Chevalier to take his arm and escort him through the halls in pearls and petticoats, they had hardly made it back to Philippe’s rooms before his skirts were thrown up over his back and his linens were suffering an undignified fate under the Chevalier’s teeth and nails.

Philippe’s back prickled with gooseflesh when the Chevalier ran his finger along the upper edge of the corset, beneath Philippe’s ticklish arm and across the span of his flat chest. They weren’t in front of the glass, so Philippe could shut his eyes and swallow hard without giving himself away. The rub of the Chevalier’s thumb above his nipples, a dull pressure through the stiff silk, made him breathe harder; the tightness of the corset squeezing tighter, chafing. Under the petticoats, half-soft and sore still from the morning’s activities, his cock jerked. Philippe shifted his feet farther apart, because his cock had wetted too many sets of underthings into disrepair already.

“Look at you blush,” the Chevalier cooed, touching the wash of pink Philippe knew must be flushing to his collarbones. “What a virginal waif you are.”

Philippe snorted, turning his face so that his mouth was very close to the Chevalier’s, the tipsy scent of him hot and tantalizing. “If that is so, you have not been performing your duties to satisfaction, sir.”

“Oh, my _duties_ **_\--_ ** ”

The door opened with a sudden rattle of the knob and Philippe jerked, startled. It was only Genève coming in with a glass bottle of perfume in one hand, curtseying and casting her eyes down modestly, and the instinctive tightening of Philippe’s belly eased immediately. Still, he touched his mouth only briefly to the Chevalier’s, barely enough to taste, and pushed him back with one hand.

“Get out,” he murmured. “Come back when I’m finished.”

The Chevalier wrinkled his nose, clearly about to protest, but Philippe raised a warning finger. “It’s immodest for a young lady’s lover to see her _en déshabillé_ ,” he said.

The Chevalier rolled his eyes and snapped a bite at the tip of Philippe’s finger. “Certainly wouldn’t want any immodesty tainting your delicate purity,” he said, backing away with an excessively courteous bow and flourish. “I will await my lady love with nothing but the most virtuous of thoughts and desires in my head. Perhaps I’ll compose a sonnet regarding your rosy…” His eyes flicked slowly down the length of Philippe’s body, lingering on the lower half. “...cheeks.”

Philippe tossed his head to conceal the sudden rosiness of his more publically appropriate cheeks, and said, “Do that, monsieur.”

The door shut on the Chevalier’s mocking laugh, and Philippe tipped his face up as Genève misted perfume into the air around him.


End file.
